


All Hallows' Eve

by fawatson



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: Gen, Ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 05:43:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16443965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: Laurie meets someone he does not expect.





	All Hallows' Eve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Greer Watson (greerwatson)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/gifts).



> **Request:** I'd like a seasonal story. Halloween wasn't commonly celebrated in the south of England at the time this book is set. However, if you want to include Halloween, I'm sure you can contrive something plausible. Either tricks or treats could have a spooky element, such as ghosts, premonitions, bad dreams, or superstition; or, if you prefer something more realistic, there's the horror of an air raid.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them.

Laurie always ran fast past the house halfway down the lane. Faster that is. The speed of youth was on his side; he tended to run everywhere regardless (when he wasn’t racing his bicycle at top speed). But it was very different running for the sheer joy of it on a clear sunny morning, from rushing to get home at twilight and having to pass the gloomy turn-of-the-century cottage with its overgrown garden. 

When Simon asked his Mum about the doleful property, she said Miss Thwaite had never been quite right in the head since her fiancé died at Isandlwana. Laurie didn’t know that place (such a strange-sounding name) and he hadn’t quite liked to ask where that was. Instead, he looked it up in his school atlas; there’d been a battle there a long time ago. 

Laurie had been tugging his surplice over his head after last Sunday’s service when he overheard Mrs Harris talking about Miss Thwaite with Mrs Penrith. They’d called her a witch and said the parish council ought to do something about her, as it was a disgrace the way she lived. Laurie couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her at the village shop (and she’d seemed quite respectably dressed in a tweed skirt and blouse with a scarf over her hair, even if her clothes were rather shabby). 

Mrs Timmings said nothing when Laurie asked while he was helping with the washing up the next day, just told him not to dawdle. But later, his mother said Miss Thwaite was just a sad old lady who had lost all her kinfolk and people who ought to know better shouldn’t listen to gossip. Laurie had known she was disappointed in him. Yet, even his mother, always the most charitable of women who was always sending him about the village delivering parcels to the poor had never sent him to Miss Thwaite’s house. And he never saw her in church. _Everyone_ in the village came to church. Some more often than others, of course. But they all came at least for the holiday services. But not Miss Thwaite. 

Plus, she was a Miss. Laurie’s world was peopled with lots of Mrs – all respectably married with children – or widows – and comfortably his mother’s age or older. There were one or two Misses, all within ten years of his own age: like Janey Lyon who the village postmistress had hired to help in the shop (who was walking out with John Manning who had inherited his father’s smithy when John Manning Snr had a stroke last year). Or Susan, who was his friend Simon’s older sister. And Misses who used to live in the village who came back to get married. Laurie had sung at several weddings of former Misses from this village. But Miss Thwaite didn’t fit either mould. She was quite elderly (even older than Mum). And she had no children (well, stood to reason that: she had no husband). 

Laurie had been out for the day with Simon (and dogs) tasked by his mother to collect chestnuts for Bonfire night. They had, of course, also checked out the badger set and, after they ate sandwiches they had brought for midday, tickled a few trout in the brook. They parted at the turning to Simon’s family farm, having divided the spoils of the day’s adventures. Two trout were carefully transferred from Simon’s creel into the bottom of the basket his mother had given Laurie before he set out, along with several dozen chestnuts and, perched on top, a pocket handkerchief tied round a handful of field mushrooms. The boys made plans to meet again the next afternoon before Laurie headed toward home. 

The deepening shadows reminded Laurie how quickly night fell since the clocks had gone back. The slight drizzle also reminded him to hurry; he had not brought his Mac and it was distinctly chilly tonight. At the gate to the Thwaite cottage, he slipped in wet leaves underfoot, banged his head against the garden gate, and yelped slightly as the overlong arms of shrub roses scratched him. A light showed as the front door opened and Gyp barked furiously. 

“Are you there?” asked a querulous voice. 

Laurie shivered, not entirely because his trousers were now muddy and damp. Maybe if he kept still she wouldn’t notice him. But Gyp was growling now - the low rumbling sound of uncertainty. 

“Who _is_ that? Speak up!” 

There was nothing for it but to introduce himself, Laurie thought, as he climbed to his feet. 

“I’m sorry to disturb you Miss Thwaite; but I lost my footing coming down the lane and fell against your gate.” 

“Come forward where I can see you,” she asked, holding up an oil lamp so she could see him better. 

She frowned slightly as she peered at him over glasses that had slipped down her nose. “You’re Lucy Odell’s lad.” 

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You should know better than to be out at this time on All Hallows’ Eve,” she chided. “It’s just asking for trouble to go out the night ghosts wander.” 

“I was on my way home.” 

“Then be off with you!” she said sharply.

“Yes, ma’am.” Laurie picked up the loose end of Gyp’s lead and tugged to pull his head around. Gyp had continued to growl. Now he responded to Laurie’s command to come but backed away from the cottage door, belly low to the ground. 

“What’s wrong, boy?” Laurie was puzzled. He’d never seen Gyp act this way before. In the lane Laurie found his basket and groped for the cloth of mushrooms that had spilled when he fell. The dog, normally a friendly creature, barked, clearly standing guard over his master. 

A chill whispered down his back and Laurie looked up as a tall thin figure in lieutenant’s dress scarlets from yesteryear passed not around but through the garden gate, and up the path. There he doffed his shako and embraced Miss Thwaite. The back of Laurie’s neck prickled warning as he watched a remarkably youthful-looking woman simper and smile and invite her dead lover into her home. 

Something cold and wet pushed into Laurie's hand; his sense of relief when he looked and saw an ordinary doggy muzzle was profound. 

“Shall we go home, Gyp?” asked Laurie softly. “Mum will be wondering where we have got to.” 

He picked up his basket and they set off down the lane and along the high street. He was suddenly thankful his home was at the other end of the village.


End file.
